Gazing out the portside window of the multi-ton leviathan jetting at over 500mph across the continent, I’ve come to realize just how quickly time is passing by. The endless minutes between two delayed flights after a week long vacation in California have opened my eyes and allowed me to contemplate my life with an introspective lens. Just what memories accumulated in the past Olympiad do I truly cherish? How much time have I spent on the wrong road, or perhaps in the wrong lane? A sad feeling washed over me as I gazed down upon the city of Boulder, where a few short years ago I ran in my first Big XII Outdoor Track meet. I realized that city marked the beginning of my demise, and as I continue to scrutinize the details packed in the three years that have passed since that moment, I struggle to find justification for all the pain and hardship I’ve endured. Sure, the path I chose was my calling, and I believe wholeheartedly that if placed in the same predicament I would no doubt repeat my former escapades, yet it all seems so fruitless. I can’t help feeling that it was all a blur of disappointment atop a mountain of unnecessary work and mental anguish. The path I have chosen was far from the easy road, and I can take solace in the fact that it has made me a greater person. But as I grow older, what once seemed integral to my existence has begun to fade away; the flames of my desire smoldering to embers.
Never has this feeling been more evident than on vacation, where days of sun and sand slow my frantic pace, melting the feeling of persistence, and replacing it with one of well-deserved laziness. I yearn for the day where running is no longer a chore, but a necessity on a whole new level. My once daily routine will, in a short year, no longer be mandatory, and that fact is unbelievably hard to grasp. There’s so much left undone, and only three seasons left to achieve my life-long dream. Therein lies the root of my insomnia.
Apart from the feeling of remorse for the physical ailments and mental woes bestowed upon me by years of pushing my body past its limits is an overwhelming feeling to be great. In times of epic laziness, usually a few beers deep, the disciplined runner rears his ugly head to set me on a crash course to fitness. An overwhelming sense of desire morphs my mood from pessimist to masochist, as I long to train my body into the ground and emerge from the dust a chiseled athlete fit to set the track ablaze. This feeling is hard to corral, but summer grants the unique property of hitting the reset button. Monstrous attitude changes require routine, and endless summer days supply the ample amount of sacred time with which to mold myself from couch potato to division 1 athlete.
As my 747 approaches St. Louis, the memories of my great vacation are mirroring my former life. The past few months my life has been up in the air, but when the rubber finally hits the tarmac and my G rolls back into Columbia I am a changed man. Greatness requires drastic sacrifice, and I have given way too many years of my life drowning in a pool of half-assed monotony. No longer will school or social life spread me too thin. However, I’m making this post as my mantra, putting down in writing what I need to see to carry on with my emotionally and physically draining task.
I am a runner. Nothing can stand in my way.
In the million steps I will take from now until next year at this time, my only hope is to have no regrets. This is my last go around, and in 12 months, the previous statement no longer applies to me. For too long have I said that running is my life, while failing to live as a runner. No longer. Watch out, it’s almost my time to shine.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Not just a finish line...
Here I sit, one final away from the culminating experience of my entire scholarly life, with graduation on Sunday seeming like a finish line. An entire life's worth of persistence, hard work, homework, studying, and attrition meshed with my choices have woven a tapestry of experience to lead me to where and who I am at this moment. So the question is, who and where am I?
The questions, although seemingly simple, have taken all of my twenty-two years to answer. Yet after all those years, I still believe I have uncovered my true self much sooner than most: I am what I've chosen to be.
I am a perfectionist to the point of self-deprication.
I am a hopeless romantic, with dreams and goals outlandish to most.
I am on an endless pursuit for both completeness and the missing piece.
I want to prove people wrong.
Regret is not an option.
I am a runner.
Though I could fill pages of "I am"s, the message stays the same: I'm focused. And right now, in the midst of finals week, graduation, and the scintillating heat of my AC-less house, I know exactly how I want to live this summer: with a dream.
As a good friend once said, "It always starts with a goal, but without a plan and the will to press on, the finish line is hard to find." I have my goal. I have my plan. I have the will to press on.
Bring on the summer grind...
The questions, although seemingly simple, have taken all of my twenty-two years to answer. Yet after all those years, I still believe I have uncovered my true self much sooner than most: I am what I've chosen to be.
I am a perfectionist to the point of self-deprication.
I am a hopeless romantic, with dreams and goals outlandish to most.
I am on an endless pursuit for both completeness and the missing piece.
I want to prove people wrong.
Regret is not an option.
I am a runner.
Though I could fill pages of "I am"s, the message stays the same: I'm focused. And right now, in the midst of finals week, graduation, and the scintillating heat of my AC-less house, I know exactly how I want to live this summer: with a dream.
As a good friend once said, "It always starts with a goal, but without a plan and the will to press on, the finish line is hard to find." I have my goal. I have my plan. I have the will to press on.
Bring on the summer grind...
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Fallout
It's been a long while since I was laying in that hotel bad in Georgia writing about my boring life. I'm sure no one is wondering how I did at the Dual, but I'm prepared to explain in excruciating detail for those unlucky enough to stumble upon my blog. The past three weeks have just been the most hectic, homework-filled days of my life, all culminating to my pending graduation a week from today. Needless to say, time wasted on a blog was not an option when there was so much to be done. Instead of regurgitating my experience in one simple post, I'll let you know about Georgia and the rest of my season, then save the rest for later.
Although the night of the meet I wrote how good I was feeling and how confident my attitude was, in truth it was all mind games; I was simply trying to convince myself through positive thought that I wasn't completely exhausted from the season of tough training crammed into 6 weeks of work. From the moment I stepped on the campus, I knew I didn't feel right. Lethargy filled by bones, and the only thing I could think about was how perfect it would be if I was curled up in bed at home with all my worries cast aside. But that was 800 miles and a month away...
My warm-up served as a good indicator of how well I'd fare in the race. If you ask my cohorts, the minimum amount of times that I complained of being tired was around the 15-20 range. I honestly felt drained dragging my ass up and down hills at 7+ minute pace. That's never a good feeling. Spikes laced and uni donned, the humidity made my legs feel even heavier, like water-logged sequoias. I new from right then that it was going to be a long, embarrassing race.
Crossing the line in last place, seven seconds after my freshman teammate was the most embarrassing experience of my life. I even got a pity clap. Shit. I was filled with rage, frustration, doubt, and above all confusion. Is this really what I want to do with yet another year of my life. Sitting crouched in the shade with my spikes kicked off, head hanging low, I couldn't find my answer to that question. All I wanted to do was sink into the ground where no one could see me.
No amount of words can ever truly describe any one feeling, much less the menagerie of feelings welled up in my brain at that moment. The excitement of being on one of my first college trips in three years had completely worn off. There's nothing exciting about being with the big dogs and getting destroyed on the track. This is not the way I want to be seen. I mean, it's beyond frustrating. I'm here, I see what I can do, I see how to do it, I'm in the race, I want to out-kick everyone, and yet I just CAN'T! I'm sick of being the outcast on the team that no one really talks to or wants to hang out with because they feel awkward about why I'm still even on the team. Injuries leave you like an ex-con, and when you get out of the prison cell of the training room, there's no going back to the good old days. The person you were has been tainted by the persona you have to carry as the kid who used to be good, the washed up state-champion. I'm pretty sure there is no one on the team, coaching staff, or even in my life that truly believes I can rise back to the top and be a prominent runner again. Everyone has given up on me. Sometimes I fear I've given up on myself...
That night I drowned my sorrows with an old teammate, who may be my last tie to the good old days. We were two freshman studs, duking it out in all the middle distance races, dropping times that would make any rookie proud. We were the new face of Mizzou, and all the coaches and teammates saw it. What the hell happened?
A dismal travel day landed me back in mid-Missouri to revel on my predicament. I know my season is over, and I know my legs have had enough torture for one half-assed season. But I only had around thirty minutes to plot my next move, as the contents of my bookbag were slowly plotting to take over my life. As the physiology book escaped, all hell broke loose, and from then until now my nose has been buried deep in the final chapter of my undergraduate career. It was non-stop work, computer screens and squinted eyes, from then until yesterday at 4pm, where I completed the Mizzou tradition, and walked back through those iconic columns I ceremoniously entered as a freshman four short years ago. The "$30,000" beer was bittersweet, as what I accomplished at school seemed to pale in comparison to what I left unfinished. I came into college wanting to be a writer and a runner, and came out an engineer. Milkshakes melt, people change...
Although the night of the meet I wrote how good I was feeling and how confident my attitude was, in truth it was all mind games; I was simply trying to convince myself through positive thought that I wasn't completely exhausted from the season of tough training crammed into 6 weeks of work. From the moment I stepped on the campus, I knew I didn't feel right. Lethargy filled by bones, and the only thing I could think about was how perfect it would be if I was curled up in bed at home with all my worries cast aside. But that was 800 miles and a month away...
My warm-up served as a good indicator of how well I'd fare in the race. If you ask my cohorts, the minimum amount of times that I complained of being tired was around the 15-20 range. I honestly felt drained dragging my ass up and down hills at 7+ minute pace. That's never a good feeling. Spikes laced and uni donned, the humidity made my legs feel even heavier, like water-logged sequoias. I new from right then that it was going to be a long, embarrassing race.
Crossing the line in last place, seven seconds after my freshman teammate was the most embarrassing experience of my life. I even got a pity clap. Shit. I was filled with rage, frustration, doubt, and above all confusion. Is this really what I want to do with yet another year of my life. Sitting crouched in the shade with my spikes kicked off, head hanging low, I couldn't find my answer to that question. All I wanted to do was sink into the ground where no one could see me.
No amount of words can ever truly describe any one feeling, much less the menagerie of feelings welled up in my brain at that moment. The excitement of being on one of my first college trips in three years had completely worn off. There's nothing exciting about being with the big dogs and getting destroyed on the track. This is not the way I want to be seen. I mean, it's beyond frustrating. I'm here, I see what I can do, I see how to do it, I'm in the race, I want to out-kick everyone, and yet I just CAN'T! I'm sick of being the outcast on the team that no one really talks to or wants to hang out with because they feel awkward about why I'm still even on the team. Injuries leave you like an ex-con, and when you get out of the prison cell of the training room, there's no going back to the good old days. The person you were has been tainted by the persona you have to carry as the kid who used to be good, the washed up state-champion. I'm pretty sure there is no one on the team, coaching staff, or even in my life that truly believes I can rise back to the top and be a prominent runner again. Everyone has given up on me. Sometimes I fear I've given up on myself...
That night I drowned my sorrows with an old teammate, who may be my last tie to the good old days. We were two freshman studs, duking it out in all the middle distance races, dropping times that would make any rookie proud. We were the new face of Mizzou, and all the coaches and teammates saw it. What the hell happened?
A dismal travel day landed me back in mid-Missouri to revel on my predicament. I know my season is over, and I know my legs have had enough torture for one half-assed season. But I only had around thirty minutes to plot my next move, as the contents of my bookbag were slowly plotting to take over my life. As the physiology book escaped, all hell broke loose, and from then until now my nose has been buried deep in the final chapter of my undergraduate career. It was non-stop work, computer screens and squinted eyes, from then until yesterday at 4pm, where I completed the Mizzou tradition, and walked back through those iconic columns I ceremoniously entered as a freshman four short years ago. The "$30,000" beer was bittersweet, as what I accomplished at school seemed to pale in comparison to what I left unfinished. I came into college wanting to be a writer and a runner, and came out an engineer. Milkshakes melt, people change...
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